Lauren Coker rn.edu



Lauren Coker

Journalism

18 June 2003

Sinners in the Hands of an Angry Camp Counselor

Apparently I am going to Hell. This thoughtful insight into my future came from three overzealous Christian summer camp counselors four years ago. However, I could not avoid thinking in my cynical sixteen-year-old mindset that this eternal damnation of which they spoke could not compare to the weeklong hell that was summer camp.

I look at the group photo of my cabin mates and me from that summer of 1999, right before my junior year of high school, and think how different I look from the rest of the campers and counselors in the picture. A sea of creepy over-stretched smiles, tanned legs, bleached blonde ponytails, and Christian fish necklaces surrounds me. I, with a blank expression, sit in the center of the photo, slouched and pale faced. I look like Wednesday from The Addams Family in comparison to those girls.

In my opinion, my parents paid an exorbitant amount of money for me to spend a week with a cult. My mother, in a final attempt to mold me into the outgoing and religious daughter she never had, forced me and my best friend Jessica (who is Jewish) to attend Sky Ranch Camp. Because we finally earned our driver’s licenses and adjusted to the life of freedom which accompanies driving, the rules and sing-a-longs of camp did not coincide with our new privileges. More importantly, at sixteen, we not only started to live independently, but also to think independently. I, nevertheless, had yet to realize that independent thoughts could scare those who never question some of the bullshit their parents, friends, and ministers feed them.

***

I sit in the backseat of my mom’s Toyota Previa minivan, or “The Dust Buster” as my friends call it, and listen to my Led Zeppelin Houses of the Holy compact disc (which I later discover is “devil’s music”) while applying my SPF 50 Hawaiian Tropic to my pasty legs.

“Lauren! Take off your headphones! We’re here!” my mom says to me in her shrill voice. Groaning, I look up to see about fifty camp counselors, in matching khaki outfits and nametags of course, smiling like my presence actually improves their day. Jessica and I exchange “Oh shit!” glances.

Later that night, after settling in to the air-conditioning free cabin with perky girls who are at least two years younger than I, I finally sit on my bunk to enjoy the rest of my Zeppelin disc. Unfortunately, Mindy, Bethany, and Ashley, the cabin counselors, interrupt my evening with Page and Plant for a corny little “get to know you” session. Everyone in the cabin eagerly gathers around in a circle and invents cheesy nicknames for themselves. We then talk about our interests. I speak of my love of music. The counselors’ eyes grow huge with fear when I name my favorite artists like Tom Petty, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, and Robert Earl Keen.

Mindy responds with a fake smile while playing with the huge cross on her neck, “Oh, Lauren, thank you for, like, bringing this to our attention. We, like, have a rule in our cabin about secular music. Yeah um…we don’t allow it. It has such a negative message about God. But, while you’re here, you’re welcome to help yourself to my DC Talk and Jars of Clay albums anytime!”

Shortly thereafter, Ashley tells us to get out our Bibles for a devotional session. Neither Jessica nor I has the Holy book, so we go on the counselors’ mental “red alert” list on day one. Of course, these naïve and overly concerned eighteen-year-old counselors have to overhear Jessica and I discussing her Bat Mitzvah from a few years ago. In their less than humble opinion, Jessica and I need an intervention of “Biblical” proportions.

***

I have no problem with God or Jesus or religion. However, I do have a problem with close-minded people who push their beliefs on others without even questioning them first. I also have a problem when people lack tolerance. The employees of Sky Ranch Christian Camp exemplified both problematic types of people. Although I am definitely not a hardcore Christian, I think I believe in God. Essentially, I am young and need to question what people claim as truth. Unfortunately, my personal philosophy of acceptance and understanding continued to clash with the authority figures at Sky Ranch.

***

That first morning of camp we wake up as soon as the sun rises, walk up a giant hill partially blocked by fallen tree branches and small nose-picking children, and gather in the cafeteria for some unidentifiable fried meal. While blinking my tired eyes in order to un-blur the image of my food, the camp director walks to the front of the room with his guitar and begins to sing, “Jesus is a Rock.” Everyone around me (excluding Jessica) has much more “oomph”; each person sings loudly and cheerfully. I have just enough energy to prevent my head from falling onto the greasy plate. I suppose the counselors make an additional mental note of this. That night, as we prepare for bed at the designated time, Jessica finds a book entitled Discovering Jesus underneath her pillow. I think how absurd this experience is.

The rest of the week follows a similar routine of songs, Jesus, and smiles. On the last night of camp, we have a plethora of disturbing discussions during our devotional. The first and most disconcerting deals with romantic relationships. The counselors tell us to be submissive when dating men. My jaw practically drops to the un-swept floor. However, they nearly top this lecture with the following one about homosexuals. Apparently, none of us should accept or befriend those “sinners.” They are “beyond saving,” and will only take us farther away from God.

Jessica, who has a close gay friend, tearfully argues, “I know my friend did not choose to have feelings for other men. He also has a very close relationship with God and considers himself to be a Christian.” The counselors, on the defense, inform her he cannot be a Christian.

Nothing surpasses the excitement I feel when my mom’s green minivan finally returns to rescue Jessica and me from that compound on Saturday. My mother’s normally squeaky voice sounds like a magnificent orchestra.

“Did you have a good time?” she chirps. My facial expression compensates for my lack of a verbal response. She gives me THE LOOK, which basically means “you ungrateful spoiled brat.”

Nevertheless, my mom’s LOOK subsides as Mindy says to Jessica and me as we leave, “I’ll pray for you two so that hopefully one day I can see you in Heaven.” Now my mom understands my earlier look of pain.

Jessica and I promptly re-tell my mother the happenings from our bizarre week of Christian boot camp, and even my normally unsympathetic mother is aghast. She apologizes profusely and admits that she thought I exaggerated in my letters home. Jessica had a more horrific time than I; the counselors bombarded her one afternoon during arts and crafts time for a witnessing event. I guess her only believing in half of their bible cannot get her into heaven. As she explains her hour of attempted witnessing, my mom fluctuates from amusement to horror.

“Oh Jessica!” my mother says, “I’m so sorry. I thought this week would just reinforce some healthy morals into you girls. I had no idea they would beat you over the head with ignorance.”

***

Looking back on that experience, I still resent that camp. I know parents who send their kids there every summer with intentions comparable to my mother’s. However, most of the campers do not have the same semi-mature outlook on life. In general, they respect their counselors and take every word as truth.

I recently went to their website, , to see if it still had a similar approach. Not to my surprise, it reads:

Our campers also make real friends with their groups and with their counselors. We have highly-trained, carefully selected counselors that campers can look up to as role models and real heroes. And with four different age-based camps, we have the perfect place to nurture every child from 6 to 16…. As you can see, campers are still having fun and we are still sharing God's marvelous news about his Son, Jesus…. Though our mission remains the same, we are growing, so that we can impact even more lives.

“Role models and real heroes” definitely fails to describe those counselors accurately. Yet, I believe some ten-year-old camper would see them in such a light. Not to overdo the issue, but on a larger scale, attitudes like these can lead to serious conflict. If a woman always submits to her husband or a similar male partner, more severe issues such as spousal abuse can arise. Also, when dealing with homosexuality, one does not have to agree with or understand it in order to have a relationship with a gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender person.

Truthfully, I do not believe I follow the path to Hell. I think my ability to accept others rather than to try and change them makes me less of a sinner than those so-called Christians at Sky Ranch. Four years later, at the age of twenty, I look back at camp and still resent it. Despite that, I know it was a true learning experience. My education at Sky Ranch related not to God or Jesus, but to acceptance. Ironically, even in my newfound “maturity,” I cringe whenever a more religious friend of mine has “Flood” or “Jesus Freak” in the stereo. Perhaps some memories are just too painful.

Afterword

I felt incredibly guilty writing this paper. I thought I might offend people. However, in this case, I felt my honesty was more important than glossing over the cult-like nature of that camp. The camp probably is not even like that to most people, but to me, especially at that time, that’s what it felt like. My experience as an alien in that environment was important to convey. I realize the tone of the paper was pretty sarcastic and bitter; but I am a sarcastic person and was even more sarcastic at that point in my life. Taking the sarcasm out would alter the personal part of the narrative.

Choosing this story to write was actually a pretty random process. At first, I thought I had no event that was significant enough to describe. Fortunately, a few days after receiving the assignment, a friend and I were discussing summer camps. I told her the detailed story and realized I could easily use it as journalism article. Most striking to me about writing this article was my realization that I often forget certain events that shaped me as person.

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